


Fault Lines

by Evaine



Series: The Jamie and Squirt Chronicles [1]
Category: Metallica
Genre: M/M, Rock Stars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evaine/pseuds/Evaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James cooks, Lars obsesses about vegetables - whose fault is it anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fault Lines

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lars sauntered into the kitchen, beer bottle in hand.

“What does it look like I’m fucking doing?” James demanded, not looking up from his task. Sometimes Lars asked the stupidest questions.

“If you were someone else, I’d say you’re cooking, but being as you’re James Hetfield, that can’t possibly be right.” Lars moved to the counter and hopped up to sit in the one clear spot that James had managed not to clutter.

“Then you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you?” James retorted, still refusing to look up from what he was doing. “Because I am me, and I am cooking.” He scooped up the green stuff that he’d been chopping and dumped it into the pot that waited on the stove.

“You cook?” Lars couldn’t keep his voice from squeaking in surprise. Almost two years he’d known him, and this was the first time he’d seen him do anything more complicated than scramble eggs or warm up a can of Campbell’s soup.

“Yeah, I cook some.” James reached out and plucked the bottle from Lars’ hand, and took a quick swallow.

“What is it? Why? How come you never said anything before?” Lars tried to peer over into the pot as he fired off his questions, but he was too far away to be successful. He shrugged good-naturedly as he retrieved his beer before it disappeared for good.

“I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to end up doing all the fucking cooking.” James gathered up the various implements that scattered the countertop, and tossed them into the stainless steel sink with a clatter.

“So, what is it?” Lars repeated. “And why today? Nobody’s home.” His eyebrows drew together in a slight frown.

“That’s why.” James fished out a long wooden spoon from the drawer where they kept their various mismatched utensils. “I felt like making some chili, but not feeding the multitudes.” He stirred the contents of the pot a few times before grunting in satisfaction, and placing the lid on top. “You want another beer?” He asked, turning towards the refrigerator. Lars looked at his bottle and nodded, downing the last swallow.

“And what was that green shit?” He persisted in his questions and James sighed. He always had to know every last damned detail. Sometimes he was a downright pain in the ass.

“Those were scallions… green onions,” James explained as he pulled two bottles of beer from the bottom shelf of the fridge. He fished a small bottle opener from the pocket of his tattered jeans and removed the caps in a single deft movement.

“Scallions… scallions,” Lars rolled the word over in his mouth. It was new to him. Even after so many years in the United States there were still gaps on his vocabulary. “Scallions… I like the way it sounds. Scallions.”

James rolled his eyes. “Are you going to repeat it all night then?” He asked, thrusting one of the bottles towards his friend.

“Scallions.” Lars grinned at him cheekily as he took the bottle. “Scal-li-ons. Nice word. I’ll have to see if I can work it into a conversation or two.” He took a long pull of his beer, plainly satisfied with himself. “When’s it gonna be ready? I’m fucking starving!”

“You’ve got a good two hours to wait, so you’d better have some crackers or something.” James pulled on his own beer before setting the bottle on the counter, and proceeding to dump the rest of the dishes and pots he’d been using into the sink. It wasn’t his week on dish duty. That was Mustaine’s job – he could take care of it in the morning.

“Shit!” Lars jumped down from the counter and began pawing through the cupboard that served as their pantry, looking something to ease his hunger. He had jammed with Dave and Cliff before they had left for the evening, and he was ravenous.

“Why didn’t you head out with the others?” James asked curiously. “You don’t usually miss a chance to party.” So he wasn’t going to have their newly-rented house to himself for the night. It was only Lars and the Squirt could be good company most of the time. Over the past two years, he’d figured out how to tune him out when the jabbering got to be too much.

“Enh, just felt like staying in.” Lars shrugged, turning from the cupboard, the box of saltines held to his chest. He headed to the kitchen table, pulled out one of the mismatched chairs and folded his small frame onto it. “Some days I can only take so much of Mustaine, man, you know?” He opened the box of crackers and dug in happily.

“Why do you think I didn’t go out to jam with you guys?” James snorted. “He annoyed the fuck out of me this morning about the fucking coffee.” And that was part of the reason the sink was now piled high with dirty dishes. James could deal his revenge subtly when he chose to.

“Hey, you wanna play some gin rummy while we wait for the food?” Lars asked around a mouthful of crackers.

“Yeah, okay. Go fetch the cards.” James reached up to turn on the radio on top of the fridge, and the sounds of the local rock station filled the room. Taking a swig from his beer bottle, he flipped a chair around and straddled it. A quiet evening of cards, beer, and food suited his mood perfectly. And maybe, since it was just him and Lars, he could make some sense out of what had happened the other night. Not to mention why it didn’t seem to be bothering him as much as it should, or at least, as much as he thought it should.

“Scallions. What a cool word. Would you like some scallions with that, ma’am? Just add a cup of finely chopped scallions.” Lars came bouncing back to the kitchen, the worn deck of cards in hand, still fascinated by the new addition to his vocabulary. “Where d’you supposed the word comes from, James?” He wound himself back into his chair.

“How the fuck should I know?” James demanded, taking the cards from him and beginning to shuffle. “Do I look like a fucking English teacher or something?” Questions, always a hundred million questions. He took a long pull on his beer. “Penny a point?” He raised an eyebrow and Lars nodded.

“Hey, do you suppose that’s where the word rapscallion came from?” Lars picked up the first of the cards James dealt him, and grinned at his growl of frustration.

“Just fucking play!” James sighed.

An hour, two more beers, and a shitload of points later, James decided he was feeling pretty mellow. The kitchen was filled with the smell of the chili simmering on the stove, he was feeling a bit of a buzz, he was winning, and Lars hadn’t mentioned scallions in the past fifteen minutes. Life was acceptable.

“You gonna play there, bud?” He asked as Lars’ eyebrows pulled together in a frown while he studied his fist full of cards.

“I’m strategizing.” Lars muttered, raising his beer bottle to his lips and resting it there as he thought. James experienced a sudden flush of heat as he was reminded of something else that had been resting there not so long ago. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his hardening cock. What the fuck was _that_ about? Yeah, so, they’d sucked each other off, and it had felt good – what was the big deal about that? He had to admit that Lars’ pouty, almost girlish mouth had delivered the best blowjob he’d ever had, if his booze-soaked memories were anything to go by. Didn’t mean he was gay or anything, did it? He still thought about girls when he jacked off in the shower. Blonde, busty ones, usually. And Lars had had some girl in the room they shared just two days ago, and there had been nothing gay about what they’d been doing when he’d walked in on them.

“Hey, fuckwit, your turn,” Lars prodded, jerking him from his thoughts. That was one part of the European’s vocabulary that was fairly extensive. Mouth like a goddamned trucker. There he was, thinking about his mouth again! Pushing aside thoughts of those full, pouty lips parting over the head of his cock, James tried to focus more intently on the cards in front of him. He was not fucking gay! Neither of them were.

“Shit!” He discarded the wrong card, and Lars immediately pounced on it.

“You’re going down now, Hetfield!” Lars chortled.

The image of his own mouth wrapped around the first uncircumcised dick he’d ever seen flashed through James’ mind, and instead of repulsing him, he discovered that it excited him. He shifted again in his chair, puzzled at the way his mind was working. Guys just didn’t turn him on! Did they? He thought of dozens of the guys he knew, and was relieved to find that not a single one of them did a thing for him. He looked at Lars from under lowered lashes as Lars gleefully placed cards out on the table, having just won the game. Maybe it was because he was small and looked like a thirteen–year-old girl for the most part? Until he lifted his chin and gave him a triumphant grin. Nothing feminine about that jawline with the faint bristling of whiskers dusting it.

“Want another beer?” James asked, getting to his feet as he downed the last of his. It was just Lars, that’s all. Just his buddy Lars. Lars, who always seemed to be there when he had those fucking nightmares, and with whom he’d shared his deepest dreams for his future, their future, the band’s future.

“Sure.” Lars gathered the cards together and began to shuffle them for the next game. James noticed, for the first time, how large and powerful his hands were. Man’s hands. Drummer’s hands. Fuck it! It was just Lars, and that’s all there was to it. He told himself to stop making a federal case out of things as he dug into the fridge for the beer.

“Hold the scallions,” Lars quipped as he straightened, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. He could be such an obnoxious pain in the ass.

“Hold your own fucking scallion, Squirt,” he shot back, stopping to give the pot on the stove a stir.

“You can use it instead of dick?” Lars demanded, his eyes wide, thinking he’d stumbled on a new profanity to add to his repertoire. James bowed his head and shook it in dismay as he continued. “You mean I could say, ‘suck my scallion, motherfucker’?’ Or call someone a scallion-head? How cool is that?” He cackled gleefully.

“You’re a fucking scallion-head, dickwad!” James couldn’t take anymore. Laughing, he flicked the wooden spoon he held and a rather large dollop of chili went sailing across the room to spatter along the side of Lars’ face.

“Hey, asshole!” Lars jumped to his feet and glared at him. “That’s fucking hot!” He grabbed his beer bottle and drained the last of it, holding the liquid in his mouth for a moment before beginning to advance on James.

“Lars,” James said in a warning growl. He didn’t only call him Squirt because he was small. Lars’ lips curved in a wicked grin and suddenly the beer was spurting from his mouth and showering James. “Motherfucker!” He yelled, and the beer bottles he still held clattered to the counter top as he took off after the quickly retreating Lars.

“You’re so fucking slow, Hetfield!” Lars taunted as he dashed into the living room. He scooped up some magazines from the cluttered coffee table as he passed, and flung them behind him, hitting James in the chest.

“You’d better hope I don’t catch you, you little fuck!” James warned, not breaking stride. They danced around the living room, Lars always managing to keep some piece of furniture between them, much to James’ frustration.

“I’m so scared, James! Petrified!” James watched as Lars gauged the distance between him and the door back to the kitchen, then realised he’d never make it before he caught him. Lars bit his lip as he quested around the room with his eyes, looking for another avenue of escape, and a feral grin came over James’ face as Lars realised he was more or less trapped.

“No escape, buddy. You’re dead meat, you know that.” James crossed his arms across his chest.

“Never say die, motherfucker!” Lars shouted, then jumped over the sofa and dashed towards the stairs that lead to the second story of the house. Graceless, yes, but it worked. James swore under his breath, and pounded up the stairs behind him, reaching out to grab a sneakered foot just as Lars reached the top. Lars stumbled and cursed, but managed to get his feet under him before James could properly grab hold of him, and scurried into the bedroom.

“Now you’re cornered, moron,” James observed, moving quickly to stand in the doorway and block the exit.

“Yes, but I have weapons!” Lars retorted, picking up a half-empty bottle of beer from the dresser in one hand, and a bottle of Aqua-Velva in the other. He grinned mischievously as the fingers of the one hand loosened the top of the aftershave. “Just make a move,” he dared, and James rolled his eyes. This was going to be far too easy.

He stepped forward into the room. Lars took a half a step back and began to bounce lightly on the balls of his feet, his so-called weapons held to the ready. James eyed the bottle of blue aftershave.

“You spill that shit in here and it’ll reek for weeks,” he said in an almost conversational tone of voice. He scowled suddenly. “Not that it doesn’t already… but…”

He lunged. Lars hopped to the side, barely avoiding his grasping hands. He gave a sudden flick of his wrist, and a shower of God-knew how many days old beer dampened James’ t-shirt. With a low snarl, he moved to the right and caught Lars in the midriff with his shoulder, sending him crashing to the bed. He managed to grab the bottle of aftershave as Lars went down.

“Oh, no, motherfucker.” He snagged the hem of Lars’ t-shirt with his free hand, and was just able to set the bottle on the crate that stood in for a nightstand before dodging one of Lars’ feet as it struck out at him.

“Don’t be a scallion-head, James,” Lars laughed breathlessly as he tried to squirm away from the looming figure beside the bed. James tightened his grip on the fabric he held, and shook his head.

“You’re not going anywhere, buddy,” he said, and pounced, trapping Lars halfway beneath him.

“Just watch me!” Lars wriggled, and managed to slide most of the way free before James was able to pin him again. A tussle ensued. A tussle that entailed the tangling of limbs, and the rubbing and grinding of various body parts. By the time James had straddled and effectively trapped a still-laughing Lars beneath him, he realised that he was in possession of a full-blown hard-on, and his friend wasn’t in much better shape.

“You give?” He asked roughly, so aware of the hardness beneath him, pressing against his suddenly aching balls. Lars shook his head.

“No.” He began to squirm again, and James bit back a groan. He looked down at Lars’ flushed face, the amused defiance in his eyes, the streak of chili along his cheek, and before he could stop to think about what he was doing, bent over and licked. Lars went still beneath him.

“James?”

“Doesn’t taste half bad,” he grinned slightly, feeling a blush begin to flood his face as he drew back. What the fuck was he doing? He met Lars’ wide, questioning gaze with puzzlement. Why did he want so badly to keep grinding his pelvis against the hardness beneath it? Why was the feel of Lars’ rigid dick beneath him so enjoyable? Why was that pouting mouth such a fucking turn-on? Why did this all have to feel so good? Fuck! His hips were moving of their own accord… straining, pushing, rubbing. Damn, it felt good. And damn it if the little fucker wasn’t moving beneath him in response!

“James?” Lars repeated his name again, his voice soft and questioning, barely a whisper in the sudden quiet disturbed only by their rapid breathing. His eyes were wide pools of green, shaded by ridiculously long lashes… confusion, apprehension and something else… something warm and – fuck! – inviting, colouring their depths.

His grip loosened around Lars’ wrists, and James noticed with the one still-rational part of his mind that the hands that had been curled into fists now lay slack and open against the bed. His fingers crept into the palms of those open hands, no longer intent on trapping and subduing. His eyes flickered to Lars’ mouth.

“Aww, fuck!” Caution, reason, better judgment… Gone in a flash. He brought his lips down, hard, on that pouting cupid’s bow, not really surprised when it parted eagerly, welcoming his thrusting tongue with an urgency to match his own.

It was so like kissing a girl, but not. There was a roughness, an edge, almost a restrained violence in the way their tongues curled about each other, stroking, nearly battering in their frantic exploration. James groaned as Lars’ tongue stroked the roof of his mouth, nothing tentative or gentle about the caress. Did all guys kiss like this, or just Lars? The fuck if he cared right at the moment.

“Jesus, James, what are we doing?” Lars pulled his mouth away and gasped for air.

“Dunno…” James said roughly. “Just feels good. Right. Dunno…” His voice trailed off. “Why the fuck did you start this shit anyway?” He glared down at Lars’ flushed face.

“Me?” Lars’ eyebrows rose into his tangled bangs. “You started it first!” He bucked against James in annoyance. “Motherfucker.”

“I didn’t get fucking hard until you started fucking squirming all over the fucking place!”

“You fucking started rubbing on me first, asshole!”

“You were fucking giving me looks down fucking stairs!”

“You licked me! Fucking _licked_ me!”

“You looked at me. Fucking begged me to!”

“I didn’t fucking beg anyone for fucking anything! You fucking sat on me!”

“You started this with your fucking blowjob bet.”

“My bet? You were the one that needed to get off so fucking badly!”

“And you didn’t? You couldn’t get your fucking pants fucking undone fast enough!”

“You put the fucking money on the table! And you were just as fucking quick to drop your fucking drawers.”

“You fucking enjoyed it well enough.”

“So did you, dick!” Lars spat out the words and groaned, his hips almost frantic as they strained between James’ legs. “Fuck, do something, anything, asshole!” His hands reached up to tangle in James’ long hair.

“It’s your fucking fault!” James rolled to the side, his legs still wrapped around Lars’ smaller form, his hands moving between them to struggle with the button of Lars’ jeans.

“No, yours!” Lars pulled James’ head forward and kissed him roughly.

“Fuck, that mouth of yours is evil,” James groaned moments later, his fingers finally victorious over the recalcitrant button.

“Take a look at yours in the fucking mirror sometime.” Lars brought his hands down to make swift work of the snap and zipper of James’ tattered jeans.

James gasped at the touch of Lars’ fingers along his midriff. Electricity shot through him. He splayed his own hand over Lars’ stomach, amazed at the softness of the skin beneath it. Lower, his fingers moved, scraping the elastic of Lars’ briefs. His eyes flickered to Lars’ face, a silent question in them. Lars bit his lip and nodded. James slid his fingers beneath the elastic, and encountered the hot silkiness of the tip of Lars’ fully erect cock.

“This is _so_ your fucking fault,” he breathed, running a fingertip over its head before sliding his hand deeper.

“Yours.” Lars groaned as James hand encircled him. “You fucking… started… it.” James felt Lars’ hand slip over the tender skin beneath his bellybutton and through the curling hairs even lower; then bit his lip as his aching cock was taken in a gentle, but firm grip. God, how could this feel so good? Fuck! He pumped frantically with his hips, lost in the sensation of those strong fingers around him; fingers that stroked with growing confidence, even as Lars’ own breathing became more and more ragged and rapid. Of its own accord, James’ hand sped up, demanding a more tangible response.

“You’re gonna fucking come first, Squirt,” he muttered hoarsely, feeling Lars’ cock begin to twitch in his hand.

“Fuck… you…” Lars back arched suddenly, his hips thrusting violently forward, a long, low moan following the words. His hand clenched around James’ cock as a stream of hot wetness pooled between them. “Motherfucker!” James could feel his own orgasm roiling to the surface, and moments later, ground his hips against Lars, growling low in his throat as he crushed both their hands between them, their bellies now slick with mingled come.

“I win.” James chuckled long moments later as he rolled over onto his back, his hand still laying on Lars’ stomach. Fuck that felt good! What the fuck could be wrong with feeling this good? Nothing. Nothing at all.

“Barely,” Lars snorted, giving James’ hand a companionable pat. “Fuck, what a mess!” He sat up, looking down at his sticky torso and rumpled stained t-shirt. “Fuck.” He pulled the t-shirt over his head as James watched from one open eye, and proceeded to wipe up the evidence of their activities. A moment later, James followed suit with his own t-shirt, tossing it onto the huge pile of dirty laundry when he was done.

“You hungry?” He got to his feet, and zipped up his jeans. Lars did the same on the other side of the bed.

“That chili ready?” Lars grinned, raking his fingers through his long hair in an ineffective attempt to order it. James didn’t even bother with his; it was a lost cause.

“Should be.” James returned the grin. He felt relaxed… and good.

“Good, I’m starving.” Lars pulled a clean t-shirt over his head. “This was all your fault, Jamie, you know that, right?” His green eyes twinkled with mischief.

“No, fuckwad, it was yours,” James sighed, and found himself grinning reluctantly as he followed his friend from the room.

“Nope, yours, scallion-head!” Lars tossed over his shoulder and descended the stairs two by two, spurred on by James’ growl of amused exasperation. “What do scallions look like before you kill them, anyway?”  


**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you goes out to my Slash Enabler buddy, Lisa, who gave this one of her most thorough edits and gave me the thumbs up as both of us giggled madly. I learned much during my stay here in Long Island. *grin* We have determined that boys will be... boys. *LOL*


End file.
